


Memory and Make-Believe

by Yveta



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Light Angst, Reminiscence, Season/Series 02, part of a larger work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:03:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yveta/pseuds/Yveta
Summary: Years later, Kent thinks back to the day he was suspended





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really short drabble, which is part of a longer fic I'm currently working on but hopefully works well as a standalone.

Perhaps thankfully, Kent's memory of that day was obscured and unclear. He hadn’t slept well the night before, lying in a fixed pose, a collapsed soldier still acting at standing to attention. He had expected at every moment for his bedroom door to groan open and for the officers who had ransacked the Incident Room to swarm in, uprooting his possessions one by one, stealing his bravery, his honesty, his good name, just as they had earlier stolen everything from the investigation. He had got some sleep eventually, after faking it for so long that it became true, but it was a damaged sleep, ripped and broken and dislocated. The next day’s events had seemed only a continuation of this. He remembered the telephone call from the Embassy of the Democratic Republic of Congo and the swell of enthusiasm in his chest as he had answered. He remembered the stunted frustration when he was put on hold as well, and how the heavy beat of the holding music throbbed in time with the still half-open wounds on his backside. While waiting, he had imagined the music entering him through his stripes and powering through his bloodstream, giving him a feigned strength just for a moment. He couldn’t really remember Chandler speaking to him, or recall at what point he had put down the phone. He may have shouted at Chandler, crying out finally with all the pain and humiliation, or he might have done so only in his head, Kent couldn’t say for sure. He recalled standing and gathering what things he could carry, affecting as though that was what he had intended to do all along. He didn’t speak in case that cracked the illusion. His memory would not tell him with any clarity how he came to be in the car park, as though he had sleepwalked down there, swimming through the stares. Maybe he had still been half dreaming, as he distinctly remembered a donkey being present, which made no sense. But none of his memories of that day, or indeed that whole week, were rational. The previous few days had felt as though he was just playing at being conscious. He had never been much of an actor, but that had been the greatest role of his life.

What he did remember most clearly was the raw choke in his throat and the burn in his eyes and the first real thought, with actual words, that he had had all day – _Thank God, I can stop pretending._

And that had made the tears fall all the faster as he realised that pretending was all that he had.


End file.
